I slide on those battered Columbia hikers leaning off the side of my hammock swinging trail side. The feel of warm wet socks from the day before slipping unwanted inside a frozen shoe. With the crunch of snow and clanging of spikes, like a herd of turtles we go stomping down that trail. To hell…
Author: Raymond A Stanton
Where do the Beavers go?
Lying in a bed of grass, waiting on the unknowing slap of the river. Clouds roll like smoke, drawn to the ringed moon like flies on shit. “This is our river,” one shouts. “It’s not ours, nor the beavers, but we all shit where we sleep,” says the other. Trees sway in a whisper of…
Hello, Autumn
Hello, Autumn. Coming in on a wet breeze, Drenching your promise to the bones. Darkness now reigns in temporary glory, Waiting in dilapidated hovels for the horrors to unfold, a blanket of snow surpasses tortured souls in the algorithm. Life-suckers on the prowl with baited hooks lingering over weakened stock, the darkness has come. But,…
Cranial Poo Prayer
Rain pattered on the broken ceiling drawing Autumn forth like a tidal wave. Dirty dishes shine in the glory of the morning as a mountain rises on the bedroom floor. I have the time, but waste it I do. Eyes flick and flutter through exhausted ripples of something better off in the distance, but I’m…
Squrriel Stew on a Fire
This was a tasty recipe I threw together.
DIY Deer Hide Haversack
Squirrel season starts on August 15th here in Indiana. As I thought about getting my gun sighted in I was also thinking about the last season and how it became difficult to carry around the squirrels I harvested. I would have to carry them around throughout the hunt, which made it slightly difficult as I…
Rainy Potatoes
I’ve got potatoes over a covered fire, as the rain drips and pours. Sorrow it will send, if the steaks don’t hit the grate. It will be nothing but baked potatoes, over a fire, in the rain, in the end.
Moon
Mystic skys swirling overhead. Weaved with the strain of duty. She beckons with her head. I collapse to her raw beauty. She lifts me from the material dead. I awaken gradually. No longer bound to the dread. Fulfilled now with the desire for purity.
The Slug
I suckle on nylon tents, titanium pots, and mesh-covered shoes. Once in awhile I get licked by strange objects, this isn’t old news. I was used to being flicked away in revulsion and pesticidal turmoil, on my way to catching the noose. But, I remain the same when the moisture is right and darkness consumes….
Small Town Hoot-Hoot
I hear an owl hoot outside my ramshackle tin can, Frosty March air dulled the night melodies, Remembrances sway in the night breeze with the rhythm of the trees, Moments slip through the cracks, A monotonous clang of metal fills the silent woodland scene, I began to recoil in horrific convulsions, Transforming into a twisted…
Slug Words 